


Last

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In lieu of Jimmy, Thomas scrapes the bottom of the barrel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Molesley’s terrible. 

Utterly, irrevocably terrible, probably dreadfully inexperienced, and not even in that cute, maybe-trainable sort of way. He just has absolutely no sense of timing or rhythm or intimacy or partnership and Thomas doesn’t even want to add ‘sensuality,’ because that’s a word that should never be in the same sentence as Joseph Molesley. 

A part of Thomas is ashamed that he even knows the man’s first name. It’d be better if this were some faceless, desperate rendezvous in an alley. But instead it’s a pathetic best-Thomas-can-get in a fancy house full of better looking, much more experienced men that would run to the police at the first thought of this. The only thing that makes Molesley tolerable is that he’d never have the guts to tell or hold blackmail, and even if he did, he’d never hold up in court—his believability would crumble and Thomas would be the only reliable source, full of lies or not. Molesley is a disgraceful, safe bet.

And some nights, that’s better than nothing. 

So Thomas lets himself be stripped and touched by a bumbling, half-drunk fool that would frankly take a horse if it offered; it’s not like Molesley will ever get any other prospects. Not that there’d be any better than Thomas, sexual preference for women or otherwise. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes Thomas just gets fed up being _alone_ , and he wants to be plowed into the mattress so desperately that he’ll take what he can get.

He’d like something better. But that isn’t an option. So he takes Molesley drenching his back in sweat and blindly stabbing into him, missing the right spot more times than not. It hurts more than it feels good, and Thomas’ cock is still only half hard against the mattress, despite his best efforts to stroke himself through the rocky ride. He never lets Molesley touch him—the man can’t even give a hand job right—and Thomas has _some_ semblance of standards. He keeps his eyes closed and his face buried in the pillow. He tries to think of better men, of that one particularly better man, but even that’s difficult; Thomas is _so sure_ that Jimmy would be _so much better_ than this.

Molesley groans nonsense and doesn’t seem to notice. He’s holding Thomas’ hips one minute and the mattress the next—he always scrambles around, and he sweats too much and can’t seem to grip anything right. His cock falls out half the time, and then he has to line himself back up, and Thomas gets frustrated and has to hold himself back from shouting loud enough to draw Mr. Carson over. 

...He has a chair wedged against the door handle, of course. He only allows this in the dead of night. He always double checks that Molesley wasn’t caught on the way over. He’d _never_ let himself get caught like this. If he has to get caught actually fornicating on site, he’d rather it’d be with his own hand...

Molesley nestles into his shoulder, mouth drooling down over his neck in sloppy, never-returned kisses, and Thomas knows he’s close from the way his hips start to shudder. Molesley always humps him like a dog, but it gets worse around the ends. Thomas takes a few more awkward stabs that completely miss the mark, and he furiously jerks his cock in his hand to try and make up for it. He’s nowhere near ready. Molesley comes against him with a strangled, hoarse cry, and Thomas feels a familiar spark of shame as his arse is filled with the slick remnants of Molesley’s seed. 

Molesley collapses atop him afterwards, heavy and drenched, and Thomas tries to elbow him off, grunting in distress. Molesley rolls onto his side, slipping out again and muttering, “Sorry, sorry—”

“Get out,” Thomas mumbles, because there’s never anything afterwards. The thought of cuddling with a man like Molesley almost makes him ill. He keeps on his stomach, hiding his face and pumping himself and trying to ignore the sounds of Molesley wrestling back on his clothes. When Molesley scrambles towards the door through the moonlight, he knocks the chair over, and Thomas is so frustrated, but more with himself than anything. Molesley mumbles some sort of parting, but Thomas completely ignores it. 

He feels a swell of relief when the door closes, and he returns to vigorously stroking himself, picturing Jimmy so vividly that he wants to reach right through the fantasies and pull the footman right out into reality. 

But he knows that’ll never happen, so he settles for a pathetic ghost of sex and haunting daydreams, and he moans Jimmy’s name when he finally comes half an hour later.


End file.
